


by your side

by shepherd



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Sick Character, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepherd/pseuds/shepherd
Summary: Settling down in the warm spot that Noctis had left on the bed, he cleared his throat. It sank low beneath his weight. “Gladio,” he tried, to no response.Eagerly Prompto shuffled forward. He swept a hand over Gladio’s sweltering forehead. “Gladio,” he tried, knees knocking the bed accidentally. “Got something for you. Time to eat.”written belatedly for day 6 of Gladio Week.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41
Collections: Gladio Week





	by your side

**Author's Note:**

> okay i am. so sorry this took forever and is. not really edited. i got so stressed looking at this for so long and couldn't do much more with it
> 
> i hope it's still likeable either way and i am SO SO sorry to the poor anon who requested this and had to wait so long omg
> 
> (also first platonic fic ay, i'm also not used to longer stuff so i tried to mix up the style a little)

By the second day, Gladio was barely lucid.

Prompto had become a permanent fixture by his side. Every half an hour like clockwork he changed the cool water within his long untouched flask and tucked in his sheets a little tighter. Anything they could find they cast over him, desperate to protect him from the motel room draft. It was too cold. Gladio trembled and heaved and fretting hands hovered endlessly. The fright had set in once Gladio had become nonverbal.

“Iggy,” Prompto said, strained and gone too long without sleep, and Ignis shouldered their burdens as best he could.

There was no kitchenette. There was barely even a tray of instant teas and coffees, and Ignis half regretted not pushing through the tension and powering through to Lestallum. But time was short and their gil dwindling faster than Ignis had hoped, and then Gladio had vomited in each Coernix station from the Fallgrove all the way to the grasslands. With each short journey Gladio grew worse and worse, and Noctis looked ready to be ill himself from the stress – and Ignis made the executive decision to stop.

He was not yet sure if it was a mistake. The Leville was too dear, but their motel was a wreck. Many windows were broken or cracked and there was merely a chain lock upon their door. Ignis would not sleep tonight. When the dark had fallen last, he had claimed a frail armchair in the corner of the room and fixed up the misbehaving kettle, ready to sully his dry mouth with cheap coffees, and do it all again at dawn.

For now, he focused on Gladio. The heaviness of his own eyes didn’t matter. “I’m with you,” he promised, _always._

His abandoned coffee steamed on the counter. Gladio’s soup was a cheap old thing, made from a dusty packet and Ignis wished he had more to give. Time and space, all the affection and care he wanted to give, and that Gladio deserved. Instead, he dissolved the mix with a plastic spoon and crossed towards the bed, stepping over their bags and strewn clothes.

Settling down in the warm spot that Noctis had left on the bed, he cleared his throat. It sank low beneath his weight. “Gladio,” he tried, to no response.

Eagerly Prompto shuffled forward. He swept a hand over Gladio’s sweltering forehead. “Gladio,” he tried, knees knocking the bed accidentally. “Got something for you. Time to eat.”

With great effort Gladio managed to turn his head. His lips were chapped and parted softly, expression furrowed. With his sapped strength it was a grand effort for him to simply breathe, his head to great a weight to lift. He had not opened his eyes in hours.

Anxiety tore at Ignis’ chest. All these hours wasted. Ignis had watched the colour drain from his face as the sun crested over the sky, watching and listening without suspicion as his temper flickered down to nothing at all, and finally was extinguished. All the while Ignis drove.

Regret was a terrible thing. An ailment with no cure that cut as deeply as any poison slick blade, and Ignis could only pray that his magic was enough to tip the scales. Side by side with his king. It was an unorthodox potion to say the least, but they had nothing else. It was minimal – trite, really – but anything at all Ignis could offer Gladio would be his.

“You need to eat something,” Ignis said as gently as his barely supressed panic could muster, and still no response.

In the corner Noctis was approaching the end of his spiral. His eyes were blown helplessly wide and his hands were the most agitated of them all, toying endlessly with the hem of his shirt. It was beginning to split and fray. Yet another task to lie upon Ignis’ steadily slumping shoulders, and the guilt of his spiteful thought hit hard. Noctis couldn’t help it – none of them could. Ignis’ hands bore a tremor.

Shaking his head to banish the thought, he leaned in close. “You have to,” he said, as carefully as he could. “Please.”

They had hurriedly propped a pillow beneath the small of his back. It had eased the frequency and harshness of his coughing, but it hadn’t reduced the pain. Gladio seized frequently and softly moaned in pain, no longer aware enough to hide his suffering. He breathed harshly and rest a hand upon his left side, seeking some comfort that Ignis could not understand. “I…” he croaked, tongue sweeping over dry lips. His once bold voice barely broke free. “I…”

At the sound of his voice Noctis flinched. There was nothing but pain within, cracked and sore. Ignis couldn’t imagine his discomfort and urged the cup closer. “It’ll ease your throat, and Noctis and I have imbued it with magic,” he said as patiently as he could muster. “Please try.”

For the first time Gladio’s eyes reopened. It was a blow to the gut. Warm honey brown had grown miserably dark, and a sallowness had long set in. His pupils were mere pinpricks. Only one faint light across the room remained. Gladio could not bear light and so they had drawn the curtains tight against the powerful streetlamps.

A pale hand settled upon Gladio’s wrist. The bed creaked when Prompto teetered forward. “It’ll help,” he promised, voice soft and gentle. His bedside manner was impeccable, caught perfectly between patient and pressing. “Just a few mouthfuls and it won’t hurt so bad, okay?”

Turning his head toward Ignis’ voice was a terrible mistake. Gladio winced against the arc of pain and whistled out a brief exhale. That alone was enough to throw him into another coughing fit and each of them winced, agonised. “Okay,” he said, the most vulnerable Ignis had ever seen him.

It was a strange thought and an even stranger sight. Gladio strove against pain to simply lean forward and Prompto touched Ignis’ hand, taking the spoon from him. It went without argument and Ignis realised only later how badly his hands had trembled. He watched as Prompto spoon-fed Gladio with great care, cold to his bones, lost within a blizzard only he could feel.

By the time Gladio could take no more most of the meal remained. Prompto tried another spoonful but Gladio protested, panting from overexertion, and Prompto’s shoulders slumped helplessly.

Their room was quiet and unbearably tense. Noctis said nothing and Ignis took the bowl, setting it beside his lukewarm coffee. In case Gladio wanted more later, he told himself, knowing he would be pouring it down the bathroom sink come morning.

“Go to sleep,” Prompto urged him to fill the silence, guiding him back down into the bundle of sheets with an unsteady hand. Gladio’s skin was searing hot and their sheets icy. Winter months could be so cruel and Prompto protected him as best he could. “You’ll feel better after a rest. We all will.”

For Ignis, sleep never came.

-

There was no doctor available in the settlement. There was no first aid office, even. There was nothing but crumbling tarmac and a sea of distant faces, and Ignis stared with disdain at the poor excuse of the pharmaceutical section within the Coernix station.

He didn’t recognise any of the brands. There were three boxes of painkillers left, all as bland and lacking familiarity as the last. All were terribly expensive. No doubt availability was low and the risks to the couriers were driving up the price as demand grew high. Ignis balked at the asking price, but only for a heartbeat. Gladio needed something for his pain, even if there was nothing for what seemed to be a bad chest infection. There was no available cure, he knew, and Ignis would bring him anything for relief,

With a heavy and accepting sigh, he snatched up the most expensive. Ignis had been standing sullen and staring for so long that he had drawn the cashier’s interest. Two men dressed all in black and standing silently in place was not a good look, and Ignis had told himself that they would lie low – two days without Gladio’s competent partnership and he was already making a meal of their plans out of sheer stress. It didn’t help matters that beside him Noctis was sullen and haunted, staring endlessly at a vague corner of the shop.

Ignis made his way to the counter only after he had counted out their cash. Money for their room had already been put aside, tucked into the Armiger for safe keeping. They could last a while longer before their situation grew truly dire, he thought. They would need a hunt soon. But Ignis loathed to split up the group, with the best of them so vulnerable, and the waters south of the settlement were treacherous. Anything nearby would be too much for a duo to handle.

 _Curse it all_ , he thought a moment, allowing himself to be sour where his companions could not see. “Thank you,” he said, tapping the box against the counter and waiting for cashier to gather his bearings, seemingly more invested in eyeing him.

Pale eyes dragged over Noctis a moment longer. They lingered a heartbeat too long. Ignis’ hands curled around a phantom dagger as the cashier moved too slow, tapping away at an ancient cash register. Perhaps Ignis was overly suspicious, wit stretched thin, but he did not enjoy their thoughtful silence. He surveyed them in turn – a tall man barely out of his teen years, lanky and pale. There was no threat, he was sure, but Ignis had known turncloaks even more unassuming.

“Is there a doctor’s office nearby,” he asked, trying what precious little remained of their luck, and the cashier paused again.

Their curiosity was insufferable. Ignis didn’t much like those who watched too closely, and his temper was already cut short. At this rate Ignis would not be comfortable letting Noctis leave the motel again. When their total showed on the cracked screen the cashier still did not reach for Ignis’ coin. “Nah. Couple of hunters might know basic first aid, but there ain’t no office,” they replied, slow enough that Ignis sorely wished he could get away with reaching over the counter and throttling them. It must have been nice, Ignis thought, to live at such a slow pace. “Docs pass through now and again. Best bet is Lestallum, though. You’ll be waiting a hell of a long time.”

“Thank you,” Ignis said in a drawl that he hoped indicated that the response was utterly useless, but the cashier seemed to miss his finely crafted innuendo.

“Cool. Two hundred gil,” he said, as blasé as if they were noting the weather, and Ignis pushed the coin against the counter at the same time Noctis silently, surreptitiously pushed a paperback forward.

He was like a ghost. Nothing more than a voiceless shroud and Ignis looked sharply his way. But Noctis avoided his gaze steadily, his shoulder pressing against Ignis’ bicep. It was good to stand so close – Ignis had missed his casual affection.

Glancing back at the book Ignis found no further explanation. A blurb faced him, short and sweet. A woman lounged morosely against a plain sofa, dressed in some unrecognizable uniform, and a woman’s hand adorned with rings curled against his shoulder. It was inexplicable and Ignis threw up his brows.

If it were a joke, he could not summon laughter. “What is this?”

“For Gladio,” Noctis mumbled. Against the noise of passing traffic and the low chatter of the store radio, Ignis almost missed his voice. “He’ll like it.”

 _Of course he would_ , Ignis thought hopelessly, gazing upon the woman’s taut expression signifying the kind of drama that Gladio lapped up, and he sighed softly. An odd mixture of fondness, warmth and exhaustion took hold of his heart. It was a kindly thought. But it came at the wrong time – or the right, Ignis thought, striving to think of Gladio’s comfort rather than their precarious financial situation. If Gladio walked among them, he would be eyeing it desperately, and Ignis would pretend to complain as they walked out with it under his arm. “It’s a lovely thought. But he’s not in the state to read it yet.”

Noctis turned his face towards the sunlight streaming through the window. A glimmer of determination wound their roots deeply. “I’ll read it to him.”

Before Ignis could speak the cashier slipped it from under their noses. If they had any wry comment to make, they swallowed it down and instead announced, **“** Three hundred and twenty gil.”

Faced with his hopeful king, Ignis supressed a wince. It was a cheap old thing, the kind of book one could slip into their pocket and finish in a day’s dedicated perusal, but it was a luxury they could not afford. Not with a week at the motel at best. Not with four hungry mouths to feed, and one of them so suddenly desperately ill.

Ignis counted out his change, and Noctis slipped the book into his pocket.

-

On the third silent night, Ignis started awake from dreams of burning hotel metal beneath his fingers.

It took a moment too long for him to adjust. Ignis blinked blearily, thrown aside by confusion and gasping for air. The world was hazy and the air was stale. Only after a frightful moment did he realise that his glasses were askew on his nose and he removed them hurriedly, facing down darkness. A horrible pit had widened in his belly. Disorientated, wheezing still, Ignis rubbed the sleep from his eyes hard.

Another dream. Ignis often dreamed – of his family and old pets, any little worries that prevailed moments before he slipped away to sleep. All manner of truths and nonsense. Sometimes the very worst of his new reality pursued him and the MT’s haunted both the sky and his subconcious. Ignis thought of their bright and chilling eyes often and when he woke with an awful cry Noctis’ hand would find him, reassuring and strong, squeezing his bicep.

Ignis had expected it automatically. It was always paired with a sleepy murmur; the shifting of a slender body close to his. But tonight, it never came and Ignis sat up to investigate, forgetting in the lingering fog of dreams exactly where he was. His feet met his suitcase and the pillow fell from his lap, and the murmur he realised he could hear had paused.

Across the room a shadow shifted. A faint crack of moonlight fell across Gladio’s covered legs and Noctis’ eyes were bright, expression tense, knowing he had been caught awake. There was the faintest glow of light beneath his skin that cast the strangest shadows and Ignis’ confused mind connected the dots very slowly.

Noctis’ phone flashlight illuminated the pages of the novel, open less than a quarter of the way through, and Ignis’ chest ached for them both.

Sitting up awkwardly he ran a hand through his hair. An ache pulled at his lower back and the chill of his dream lingered. The armchair had been a mistake he was forced to commit with Prompto and Noctis sharing the floor. By his feet Prompto remained fast asleep, curled in an awkward ball and still clutching his own phone. They had all begun to steal sleep wherever and however long they could. Sometimes it never came. Sometimes it was fleeting. Not a second of it made them feel any better.

“Apologies,” he said into the silence, knowing it would not stir their sleeping companions. Not even a herd of garula could rouse Gladio now.

Getting to his feet he pushed off the blanket that had not bee there when he had first drifted off. It gathered at his feet and he chose to drape it carefully over Prompto, tucking it firmly around his shoulders. Noctis watched him for a moment, oddly wary – but looked away again once satisfied that he could resume, murmuring again, and Ignis abruptly understood.

“The dusky and faintly sweet smell of her perfume came to Therese again,” Noctis read, low voice soothing within the darkness of night. Familiarity soothed the fretful beat of Ignis’ heart. “A smell suggestive of dark green silk, that was hers alone, like – like the scent of a flower.”

The lilt of his voice was uneven. It wavered often, fraught with some complex and unending emotion, and Ignis knew him too well. It was fear, and the deepest touch of long burrowed deep anxiety. The fear of loss, and Gladio lay pale and still. Ignis swore he could taste blood upon his tongue.

The bathroom was by the door, past the foot of the bed. Ignis did not need to pass close to Noctis to slip away, but he did, and ghosted his hand over Noctis’ shoulder. It made him quiver, his voice faltering, and Gladio sighed low and long in the absence of sound. A nameless illness still held him tight.

The prince hiccupped. Heir apparent and he wiped at his eyes, sleepless and struggling, and Ignis moved quickly in the bathroom, scrubbing his teeth so hard that he truly spat blood. With a splash of cold water against his face he was alert again, though only adequate.

When he emerged again, Noctis had journeyed onward. He spoke of love and adoration, a woman’s blossoming feelings for her dear companion, and Ignis smiled faintly. He neatened his own hair with the memory of his wild mess fresh in his mind, a tired face reflected by a grimy mirror, and he couldn’t stand much more of this cramped room.

“Let me,” he said, resting his hand upon Noctis’ shoulder. He rubbed lightly, letting the last of his magic seep into Noctis’ skin, hoping to sooth the worst of his tension. “Get some sleep, Noctis.”

He hesitated. Halfway through turning his page he looked up at him, and Ignis’ weariness was reflected perfectly in a young, shattered face. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said, and Ignis could relate.

“Then let me read to you both a while,” he said, settling down beside him carefully, and pried the book easily from his hands.

Ignis read until his voice was raw and the sunlight burnt against the cheap curtains.

-

“How are you feeling,” Prompto asked, hushed and gentle, and Gladio could just about force an agonized groan through his mangled throat.

Each part of him ached. Like he dragged weights behind him, lashed to his ankles and wrists, and Gladio could not find a comfortable position to lay. Boredom and anticipation warred over him, endlessly squabbling. “Like shit,” he said with no energy left for saccharine sweetness, and Prompto’s uncertain smile bared his teeth. “I’ll live.”

It earned him a despondent hum. Prompto kept his eyes low, his hands awkwardly clasped within his lap, and he looked almost as poorly as Gladio. His nails had been bitten down to the quick and torn his skin. A drop of blood had dried upon his thumb.

There was nothing to be done. No television, no music, and Prompto could not stomach the silence for much longer. “Is there anything I can do?”

Both of them knew it was a foolish question. Prompto flushed hot in shame, cursing himself for his relentless stupidity, but Gladio offered him a lazy grin. It strained at the very corners of his mouth. “Get me a pizza. Extra everything. Extra-large.”

He wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Still he could not keep anything more than warmed bread down for long, forcing himself to eat whatever Ignis brought him, and Prompto laughed politely. It rang hollow. “Wish I could,” he said and began to drum his fingers against his knee. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Can’t do anything,” he said with faux lightness. It was easier to talk around the dread that had accumulated in his chest. Seeing Gladio knocked flat had set off the kind of anxiety Prompto hadn’t felt in a long while – the very real threat of loss, of suffering from the diseases that often plagued his childhood, and he couldn’t bear it. “’cept make you drink more water and get you your bucket.”

Settling his weary head back against the pillow Gladio look a moment to gaze up to the popcorn ceiling. It was cracked and off colour and over the past few days he had become very well acquainted. “Ain’t nothing else to be done,” he reminded him, and had to clear his throat. It scratched and tore and Gladio could manage nothing but great hacking coughs for too long.

Once breathing and panting, pushing through the pain, Gladio continued weakly. “Not like you can get some fucking… some fucking insta-cure.”

“Yeah, but,” Prompto began and Gladio sighed loud enough to get Prompto’s hackles rising, automatically on guard. “Yeah, I know, but… Iggy’s busy, and I’m… just sitting here like an asshole, waiting around, staring at my phone. Can’t I do something?”

“Gonna be a lot of waiting around, kid,” Gladio said and all his famed calm had left him behind. Only despondence remained, a slow draw to his speech that Prompto loathed. “You’re doing a hell of a lot more than me, so take that as a win. We’re stuck here until I get my ass in gear.”

It was horribly quiet after. Prompto had never been keen on the quiet and he filled it with the heavy drumming of his foot. “There has to be something I can do,” he said, restless and thrumming with energy and Gladio sighed, world weary.

“There’s nothing,” he said, and the exasperation was the very worst thing. Logic and memory told him it wasn’t angled towards Prompto – never Prompto – but he worried all the same. “Nothing but wasting our godsdamn time.”

Pulling the blanket up, his hands then lying limp and baring his palms to the ceiling, Gladio looked away. A tension had overtaken his brow and Prompto eyed it warily, following the slope of his throat as it bobbed, the drawn line of his shoulder. Gladio was built with too much tension and sleep had been beyond him since the first touch of morning. The sky had reached its highest point in the midday sky, and he grew terribly bored, temper waning.

It reminded him of the past. Men of the Citadel could fall into fits when bedbound – so agitated and Prompto’s father had been the same whenever disease gripped him. Cor muttered and stirred and stalked his halls until he could muster no more energy, and once he lay prone Prompto would descend with any cure he could. The cure of food, of water – affection, if desired, and Gladio didn’t react to Prompto’s touch until his thumbs pressed surely into the softness of his palm.

Turning his head, he frowned, finding his hand cupped in both of Prompto’s. They were wonderfully warm and still soft, unhardened by years of sword training. Prompto’s talent lie in his accuracy, in all things careful and quiet, and Gladio exhaled softly as Prompto massaged his heavy hands, tired from all they carried.

“Sorry,” he said, realising the silence. “Is this weird?”

It was a little. Prompto had grabbed Gladio’s hand frequently, but not since they were children, when Prompto was desperate to wander off from the rest of the group in the biggest arcade in Insomnia. Prompto’s hands had grown stronger, surer, but they faltered with time and Gladio realised he hadn’t yet spoken.

“It’s fine,” he said softly, watching closely. “Don’t worry about it.”

Prompto’s head hung low. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, and got to work, eager to be of use.

Prompto cupped his hand, stroking along from his wrist to the very tips of Gladio’s fingertips. He gazed down with vacant eyes, hair drooping low, and Gladio basked in the strange mixed feeling of discomfort and pleasure. He traced patterns up and down, alternating between light and firm and Gladio lost himself, sighing again when Prompto reached up to his wrist, massaging firmly.

“Sorry,” he said again, so quiet that Gladio may have thought he dreamed it, but sleep was a fickle thing.

It did nothing for the weight in his chest. It did nothing for the pain, but it eased the tight knot of tension and let his eyes drift closed, distracted at last. Contentment bloomed within again, a small flame but easy to stoke.

A gentle back and forth helped Gladio relax, even minutely. His building temper faded, soothed by Noctis’ warm weight against his side, and Prompto’s studious quiet.

“Listen,” Gladio said before he could fall asleep, softer than before, and his voice cracked hard. “Your company is the best thing for me right now, okay? I know it’s shit. So you being here means a lot.”

Prompto’s hands paused. Thumbs dug pleasantly at the base of Gladio’s fingers. “Huh?”

Gladio struggled to open his eyes a moment longer. “Don’t make me say it again,” he complained, raw. All those cups of water, and still he struggled. “My throat is killing me.”

Prompto ducked his head back down. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly, but it sparked a modest smile, one that could not budge as Gladio began to wind down again, almost at peace. He worked until Gladio was dozing, a careful eye upon his slackening expression, and basked in his peace.

Even as Gladio slept Prompto held onto his hand, stroking over the back whenever Gladio so much as stirred – and Prompto watched over him well into sundown, quiet and proud.

-

At the end of it all Gladio wasn’t sure what would kill him first – the burn of mortification overtaking his face, the violent cramping of his gut, or the withering look upon Ignis’ face once he took in Gladio’s awful mess.

At least it was on the tile. The carpet would earn them a costly fee from the motel, and they couldn’t handle another hit this hard. Gladio straightened up slowly, clutching his belly and praying that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. It would at least end the unbearable aches in his overtaxed body, the tremors that wracked him, and end the pathetic Shield that was sick on his own king’s boots. “I’m sorry,” he grunted. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

Only concern claimed Noctis’ expression. A hand braced against his shoulder and another rest upon his forehead, feeling for his temperature. Vomit left a horrible taste in Gladio’s mouth and his headache pulsed powerfully against his skull, agonizing. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine. Do you need to stay here?”

Shamefully, Gladio nodded. “I’m gonna,” he said, and his stomach roiled. The awful feeling of _wrong_ claimed his body, impossible to fit into words. Every hour of every day Gladio felt dire, his strength stolen from him. His prince had to make sure he could cross to the bathroom, and he loathed himself for such weakness. “I need to-”

Sinking to his knees, Gladio appreciated the cool tile through his sweatpants, tough on his knees. He fumbled to rest his hand against the toilet lid, feeling his stomach swirl and the nausea rise. Gladio could not focus his mind. Noctis seemed everywhere and nowhere, with the world spinning and too many hands all along his body. “Shit,” he gasped, and Noctis thoughtfully and adeptly managed to wrangle his braids back before he heaved.

The smell was acidic. It was remarkable that Gladio had anything left to give, with most of his late lunch utterly untouched. He gagged without bringing anything up several times, aching to his core, and Noctis mumbled wordless comforts.

The world was too small. The room was tiny and Gladio was itching for fresh air, the cool wind and all the comforts of home. He had never been this sick. Not once had he been condemned to his bed and he loathed it. Five days – five days they had been left here, haemorrhaging money and wasting precious time, and Gladio had sworn to never be a burden.

“Caem,” he barely managed through a destroyed throat. The taste was foul, tongue curling around such a sweet word. “Can’t we-”

Noctis’ palm swept over his scalp. “We can’t,” he said, but uncertainly. “Ignis said-”

“Can’t stay,” Gladio stressed, as badly as it hurt. He rest his sweltering forehead against the cold lid, desperate. “Need to be safe. Need you to be safe.”

Those hands paused. Gladio moaned in complaint, seeking the comforting pressure and Noctis stroked over his head softly, surely. It was the only thing that kept him centred – more useful than the shock of cold, than the clatter of a remote knocked over in the bedroom. “Soon,” he promised.

Grimacing, Gladio couldn’t bear to move. His brain felt swollen and too big for his skull. “When?”

“Soon as you’re strong again,” Noctis promised. “We’ll be safe here – I’ll make sure of it.”

It wasn’t enough. Gladio had to be strong and keep moving forward through disaster – but he couldn’t breathe around his next gagging fit, unable to bring up the poison that ailed him, and he was pathetic to his core. He almost sobbed around his pain, filled with misery and poison, and he cursed his useless, wasteful body.

There was nothing he could do but let himself be led slowly back to the bed. Noctis clung to his hands and somehow another pair settled upon his waist, smoothing up along his spine. Gladio could not see them, could not hear them, and all he could feel was despair.

Three pairs of hands settled over Gladio’s chest as he panted, brows knit, and both Prompto and Noctis lay curled at his side, clinging to their hope and Ignis watched over them all.

-

The quiet had become stifling and Prompto couldn’t take much more.

There were only faint noises from beyond the walls of their room – noisy neighbours clattering around or humming uneven tunes in their shower. Cars drifted by constantly and drunkards shouted and laughed at night. Unfamiliar voices prickled his skin, leaving him antsy. Each sound drew his shoulders tense. It had taken Prompto a long time to grow adjusted to the pace of life beyond the Wall and it still sat uncertainly within him.

It had been only the four of them for so long. Prompto had half-forgotten the dangers and colour of the world beyond their car, and he didn’t care for those who passed too closely to their door.

When Ignis left to scavenge for food or medicines Noctis was silent. Gladio often slept away most of the hours, even if he spoke easier and even made jokes when in a blessed mood, and Noctis still tirelessly and wordlessly watched over him. When Ignis stayed it was easier, hearing him clatter around in the bathroom, deep cleaning with whatever he could find to settle his nerves, and Prompto sank into comfort. Familiarity helped, and sometimes Prompto left simply to sit in the car, radio on and windows up, seeking reassurance.

On the sixth day, a tiny market filled the empty car park.

For a while Ignis fret over the Regalia. It drew too many eyes and curious comments, photos snapped every hour and Ignis had moved her into the shade of the motel, glowering at any who dared approach. Prompto had watched from the reception, concerned by the sudden influx of strangers – but the market had called to him, a tinkerer’s dream, filled with vibrant colours and noise at last.

He had sought Noctis’ permission first, who simply shrugged. Ignis had hummed, reluctant, but Prompto was weary and starved of movement, and Ignis finally relented and even pressed a coin into his hand.

“Anything that might cheer us all up, with Gladio almost on the mend,” he said, and Prompto had never known a mission so important.

Amongst the hastily drawn up stalls there was everything – toys and playing cards, magazines and machine parts. Children moved from stall to stall with looks of wonder, and Prompto wondered if this was the highlight of their week. There were a dozen tables at most, laden down with all sorts, and Prompto was tempted by the sweet smell of warm popcorn, belly grumbling.

Many stalls failed to capture his interest. Prompto wandered by and held his camera close, thumb sweeping over the cool plastic. The sun was out but frequently slipped between clouds. Nothing caught his eye – no person and no view, no gift or hobby.

When he turned to wander to the next, he caught a rough curse. A man sat behind his table, tattooed and gruff, fiddling with a hunk of plastic. It took a beat too long to realise that it was a radio. It was ancient, damn near prehistoric to Prompto’s eyes, and he bet the sound was awful.

Almost fortuitously it refused to play at all. A screwdriver dug around within its guts, seeking something that the man couldn’t find, and he set it down upon the table with a long sigh. “Piece of junk,” he said with some lingering touch of affection, and Prompto stepped forward.

The strangers stall was much of the same. Odds and ends that Prompto only sometimes recognised and often not worth the inflated price. Some models of cars were uncommon between the gears and chargers, phones that looked more like bricks, and the man looked up at him. A faint curiosity crossed his expression and then his eyes fell to Prompto’s camera.

Impressed, he whistled. “Nice piece of kit,” he said, and it took Prompto an embarrassing amount of time to realise what he was talking about. “You looking to part with it? Offering cash.”

Prompto’s heart seized. Anxious fingers curled around his prized possession. “Sorry,” he said, and the man only smiled.

“Hey, no big deal,” he said, and rest his chin in his hand. “Would just be nice to work with something that won’t die on me after a couple months.”

He set the radio aside. The clear plastic cover was ruined with scratches and nicks. The speakers were dusty and the station names faded. “Piece of junk made it a little longer at least. Been with me a year. Just can’t figure out what to do to bring it to life one last time.”

It could be anything. Any little infinitesimal broken connection within the mess, and Prompto itched to find it. All his life he had been clever with such things – good with his hands, or at least better than his stumbling voice, and Prompto took what pride he could. It was the perfect little task to distract his mind, and Prompto could feel the coins weighing down his pocket.

“How much,” he asked, and the man frowned, tilting his head.

A half hour later, Prompto had his feet propped up on the foot of Gladio’s bed. Noctis lay at Gladio’s side and both slept soundly, Noctis’ head upon his shield’s bicep. Ignis enjoyed a long, hot shower – one of the few pleasures they could afford – and Prompto worked tirelessly, determined to fill the quiet.

When Gladio next woke it was to the familiar call of a famous ballad a duet shared between lovers, and a thrill electrified Prompto’s heart when Gladio smiled and turned his head without complaint.

-

Ignis’ hands were steady and clinical in their coolness – like a doctor’s, but in the fine light of morning they no longer felt so stark.

With a satisfied hum Ignis smiled down at him. “You feel much better,” he said and Gladio could finally turn his head without stabbing pain. It was still too much to ask to lift it without protest, but Gladio would be content with any progress. “How do you feel?”

Lethargy still claimed him, too heavy to shake. But his chains were broken, and the weights gone, and Gladio found reasons to smile again even as he lay disgustingly sweaty, once too weak to attempt a shower. “Better,” he said honestly, and Ignis gave a soft sigh of relief for him. “I’ll be okay to move for Caem tomorrow.”

Ignis brows rose, an elegant arch Gladio always envied. “We’ll be the judges of that, I think,” he murmured and swept over to the other side of the bed.

It was no longer so dismal. While his eyes were still stung by the daylight it was no longer a curse and Gladio gazed out of the window, enjoying some fresh air and watching the fields that lay far beyond. It was empty of life and no roads disturbed nature, nothing more than slowly swaying grass. Boring, but beautiful, and Gladio listened intently to the boring news that played on the radio.

“Are you hungry,” Ignis called as the news shifted into an old song Gladio hadn’t heard in years.

Gladio’s belly had been gnawing at him for hours. Appetite waxes and waned and in this moment Gladio wanted nothing more than to be fed. “Yes,” he murmured. “Is there any more soup?”

“I’ve sent Prompto out,” Ignis said, unfolding and refolding one of his shirts simply to keep his hands busy. No matter how hard Ignis had tried to teach him the perfect fold Gladio could never quite remember it. “A small lunch for each of us – perhaps it was presumptuous, but I was hoping to coax you into something a bit weightier than a bit of bread and soup. If can’t eat it, or don’t want to, I could always go and fetch-”

Ignis’ voice picked up that common tone. Gladio knew it all too well like the mannerism was his own. That urgent tone of explanation, of exactly how he could make things just right for Gladio, and Gladio surged against it. “No, that sounds good. Thanks, Igs.”

Looking over his shoulder, Ignis watched him a moment with wary eyes. He then paired some of Prompto’s socks – anything to keep his hands busy, and Gladio watched him unzip his suitcase and begin to reorganise everything that was perfectly put away. A singer droned on, content in her own little world, and Gladio could almost relax.

It wasn’t much longer until heavy boots thumped along the hall. Ignis’ ears picked up only a few moments before Gladio heard them coming, noting with satisfaction the gradual sharpening of his senses. Before long Prompto pushed his way into the room, a bag hanging off his arm and Noctis close behind, cautiously peeking out before shutting the door tight, sliding the chain across the way Ignis reminded him a half dozen times. A steaming cup was clutched in one hand, and Gladio could almost smell the intensity of black coffee.

A gentle flush warmed both their cheeks. It wasn’t quite contentment, but it was close. Noctis wore a very small smile. “It’s nice out there,” Prompto said, and dropped the bag at the foot of the bed. “Market’s back. Sun’s out. Maybe Gladio can stretch his legs?”

It had been a week since Gladio had last felt the sunlight. It had felt like forever, and yet no time at all – Gladio’s skin was starved of the warmth but he had slept fitfully, often losing half days to sleep. His heart longed for it, sickly and gross.

Ignis greeted them all with a touch to the shoulder or a brush over their wild hair. “Perhaps,” he said with a nod, but didn’t look Gladio’s way. His own smile sat easy, but crow’s feet formed around his eyes. There was a touch of weariness still. But Ignis remained warm and fond. “Anything interesting?”

“No,” Noctis murmured, wry. “Just more popcorn.”

“Oh dear,” Ignis replied and shook his head, a small laugh shaking his shoulders. “Well, never mind all that I suppose. Gladio is a touch hungry – did you find anything?”

Coin quickly changed hands before Gladio could spy how little they had left. Prompto distracted him with the rustling of the shopping bag, bounding across to him. “Got some fruit,” he said, and Gladio had well and truly had enough of little cube of apple and slices of bananas. “Have a couple sandwiches, got some biscuits – ginger snaps, for the nausea – and some soup just in case. Take whatever you want.”

With a moment perusal, Gladio took the ham and cheese. He hovered temporarily over the tuna, but Noctis looked heartbroken. “Thanks,” he said, finally having enough strength to open a packet alone. The cheese was limp and the ham sliced finely, but it was the best thing he had seen in days.

Prompto swiped the BLT and Noctis followed closely behind, sneaking the tuna before Ignis could laugh at him. Gladio ate one half in a matter of moments, before Noctis even took his first bite. From his place on the chair Ignis watched, one leg crossed as he made sure the caps on his toiletries and looked pleased when Gladio went for the other half.

It felt incredible to eat again. Gladio quickly became ravenous and polished off his sandwich in record time, still barely able to taste but able to swallow around the lump in his throat.

In the meantime, Prompto had taken two bites. The tomatoes from his sandwich were carefully picked out and left behind, and Gladio ate those too. “Damn,” Prompto crowed, laughing. “You’re back to normal, then.”

Rising from his seat Ignis drew closer, eyeing his empty packet. Relief quickly dawned and peace looked good on him – it took years from his pinched face, smoothing over his furrowed brow. “Well then,” he murmured and reached out to push the loose strands of Gladio’s hair out of his eyes, a thoughtful look to his own. “Perhaps we can discuss Caem in more depth?”

All the anxious energy still pent up in Gladio’s heart abruptly deflated. He sat up a little straighter, hoping Ignis wouldn’t spy the stiffness. “Finally,” he burst, unable to withhold his anticipation. “Tomorrow?”

Ignis tapped at his forehead. “We can discuss it,” he said firmly, all the manners of a long weary teacher, but a warm smile followed. “Eat an apple and keep the whole thing down and we’ll discuss it now.”

The apple was gone in less than two minutes, with careful nibbling around the core and stem, and Ignis could only laugh.


End file.
